


Catnip

by these_dreams_go_on



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, background Bellarke, minty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 15:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14475204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/these_dreams_go_on/pseuds/these_dreams_go_on
Summary: When his roommate impulsively adopted a cat, Miller had no idea how good it would be for his love life.





	Catnip

There had been a very short period in Nate Miller’s life when he had thought Bellamy Blake was cool.

In fairness to him, this had been freshman year in college, when they’d been assigned as roommates and Miller had been new to Arkadia, new to big city life and nervous as hell about meeting the guy he’d have to live with for a year.

It hadn’t helped that Bellamy was gorgeous and had been very, _very_ shirtless when they’d first met.

But Miller hadn’t been shallow, he’d also been turned on by Bellamy’s clear intelligence and when his roommate had drunkenly brought home three stolen bottles of coloured vodka (purple, pink and clear) to decorate their windowsill because alcohol and bisexuality were his two favourite things. Miller had nearly had to restrain himself from kissing the guy.

Surprisingly, finding out that Bellamy was interested in board games and eager to be initiated into geek life had helped abate Miller’s raging crush. Helped him realise that despite meeting every pre-requisite to be crowned a sex god, his roommate was actually a mere mortal discovering new hobbies and interests like the rest of them.

It enabled him to develop a partial immunity to the hotness of his roommate, the two becoming best friends with occasional benefits and one three-month period where they managed to date each other without either of them realising until his dad had asked when they were going to make it Facebook official.

When Octavia Blake sashayed onto campus in their third year, somehow having skipped two years in primary and high school due either to academic brilliance or sheer confidence (opinions varied), he found himself watching her as anxiously as Bellamy did, shadowing her at any and all events men were allowed to attend and staring down any guy that approached with less than honourable intentions.

Like dating Bellamy, he hadn’t even noticed he’d been adopted by the Blake siblings until he found out that he was one of their emergency contacts and Bellamy’s grandparents in the Philippines not only knew him by name, but frequently asked whether he was dating anyone or when he was going to settle down and get married, (preferably to a doctor or a lawyer)  

Not only was he an honorary family member, but out of all their friends and random acquaintances he was considered the Blake sibling expert.

He understood the two of them better than anyone.

Which was why he knows that the two of them had a tendency to be impulsive, but they were also very sneaky about it, so by the time anyone caught them, they’d rationalised their actions or come up with a justification so that people found themselves retroactively giving them permission for whatever it was they had done.

Still, when Miller wakes up one morning in their off-campus apartment to find a kitten staring at him, as surprised by his presence in his bedroom as he is, his first thought is that Bellamy probably already had his arguments ready.

But for the sake of his pride, he picks up the confused cat and stomps into his housemate’s bedroom.

  
“What the hell?” he demands, still half-asleep and Bellamy has the decency to look slightly guilty at least.

“She’s a rescue cat.” he begins, clearly planning to launch into a story about how he’d found her at a kill-shelter, or been called and warned this sweet, little grey fluffball was headed straight for the kitty litter in the sky.

Prolonged exposure to the Blake siblings means Miller knows to cut them off before they start the emotional manipulation. The two of them have been too hot for too long that they have little to no experience of being interrupted.

  
“Have you forgotten that we’re renting?” he asks, “Or that our apartment manager nearly turfed the girls two floors up because one of them put a pride sticker on her window?”

“Diana said we could have a cat.” Bellamy assures him, and Miller has a moment where he tries to figure out who Diana is before remembering that despite all appearances to the contrary, their apartment manager was not a demon, but a human female…

“And what were you _wearing_ when you spoke to Ms Sydney?” he inquires, and Bellamy rubs the back of his neck,

“I got the idea after coming back from a run.”

“Were you wearing a shirt at the time?”

“It was a warm day!”

“It’s _January_ , Bellamy.” He responds, glancing at the light snow flurry out the window and the kitten mewls as if agreeing with him.

  
Bare-chested and sweaty from running, he probably could have convinced the forty-year-old apartment manager to let him slaughter innocents and store their organs in the laundry room.

In fact, considering what he knew of her, Miller reckons she would have liked that.

Meanwhile, the kitten has had enough of being held and struggles until she is placed on the bed, at which point she prowls up the blanket till she pounces on Bellamy, who falls back dramatically against the pillows, smiling as the kitten headbutts his chin and dammit if that wasn’t simultaneously the cutest and sexiest thing Miller’s seen in a while.

Deciding to take the high-road before the low-road leads him into Bellamy’s bed, he turns and stomps from the room.  

  
“Her name is Cleo _cat_ ra.” Bellamy calls out behind him and Miller shakes his head.

* * *

 

Despite having purchased her on impulse, Bellamy takes full responsibility for Cleo’s care, cleaning her litterbox, training her not to test gravity with any of Miller’s possessions and somehow teaching her not to yowl after a certain hour.

And Miller can admit that it’s nice to have an animal hanging around the place, especially when she sits beside him while he’s playing video games or curls up in his bed on the nights Bellamy’s working late.

She greets him when he comes home, perched on the kitchen bench, her head tilted slightly as she surveys him, and he gives her a quick nod of welcome or confirmation that he is Nate Miller.

Because they’re on the ground floor apartment, when the weather gets nicer, they often leave the window open during the day, allowing Cleo to come and go as she pleases, and Miller will sometimes take his laptop and study in the front yard while she meanders around the lawn.

So, one morning, when he has a cancelled class, he opens the front door, walks out with Cleo and throws a picnic blanket on the grass.

Cleo stares at him for a while, tilts her head back to watch the sky and then stalks over to climb a tree that Miller had already checked for birdlife.

And honestly, he can’t believe his luck that Bellamy’s tendency to be a drama queen somehow hadn’t rubbed off on the cat yet.

Around midday, he gets hungry and heads inside, making himself a snack and he doesn’t even register that he hears voices- he lives in an apartment building after all- until he goes back outside and sees someone talking to the tree.

Again, he’s not overly concerned, Arkadia University has just enough rich students that designer drugs occasionally make an appearance. Miller himself knows a girl who can get him Adderall, Modafinil and any other upper he might need to get through finals week. Hallucinogens aren’t as common but he’s writing the guy off as a user before remembering that his cat is up that tree.

Cleo drops onto a lower branch, leaning down and sniffing at the guy before he holds up his hands and she pliantly allows herself to be gathered up into his arms.

Slightly worried that he’s witnessing the most laid-back kidnapping ever, he wanders over, ready to save the cat.

Except the guy looks up as he approaches, with gorgeous eyes and he’s cute enough that if the Blake siblings weren’t likely to hunt down and brutally slaughter cat-nappers, Miller would definitely consider letting him walk away with her.

  
“Oh hi,” he says smiling, “Are you Bellamy’s roommate?”

“Yeah,” he answers quickly, before remembering that he is in fact Bellamy’s roommate and not lying so he can keep talking to the cute guy.

“Miller.”

  
He offers his hand but when cute guy goes to shake it, he jostles Cleo and there’s a moment where she digs her claws into his shirt and growls at the disruption.

  
“Sorry,” he says, “Uh Monty Green, I know Bellamy and Cleo here,” he holds the cat up slightly and Miller jerks his chin, “Do you want to sit down?”

  
With a grace that somehow still comes off as adorably nerdy, Monty manages to end up cross-legged on the blanket without upsetting Cleo at all.

In fact, Cleo rolls over onto her back, exposing her stomach and meowing as Monty absently scratches her chest.

It had taken Miller a solid week before she judged him worthy of a head butt.

  
“You weren’t lying about knowing Cleo,” he says, “You come here often?”

  
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he wants to find the nearest road to lie down on and wait for the sweet, merciful relief of death.

But Monty either didn’t pick up on his heinous, life-altering mistake or is actively ignoring the level of stupidity that came out of Miller’s mouth,

  
“Every week,” he answers casually, “I’m friends with Octavia and Bellamy’s been letting stressed students come around for some therapy cat.”

  
He nuzzles Cleo’s face and she paws his cheek lightly while Miller processes what he’s just been told.

Bellamy was using their cat to lure hot guys back to their place?

And he _hadn’t_ told Miller?

* * *

 

_Text Message_

_Nate Miller: You’re a dead man_

_Bellamy Blake: Cool._

_Bellamy Blake: How dead?_

_Bellamy Blake: On a scale from Alexander the Great to our excitement for the next season of The Walking Dead?_

_Nate Miller: I’m gonna ring up your Lola and tell her that don’t believe in marriage levels of dead._

_Bellamy Blake: Dude!_

 

_Text Message_

_Nate Miller: Need you to punch your brother for me._

_Octavia Blake: Done._

_Octavia Blake: I should really punch him twice to get the message across._

_Nate Miller: Once is fine._

_Octavia Blake: Too late, I’m already in a two-punch frame of mind_

* * *

 

“So,” he stammers, once his phone is face down on the blanket, “You’re friends with Octavia?”

Monty grins, “Kind of? I mean, I tried wingmanning for my friend Jasper when we first met her and before I knew what happened, we were all friends…”

“Blake adoption strategy.” Miller deadpans, “You stand still long enough, their grandparents will start worrying about your marriage prospects.”

There’s a thrill of fear in Monty’s eyes, “Damn, my own grandmother disowned me when she found out I was gay, I don’t need to be three for three.”

  
Miller nearly smiles at confirmation that Monty was gay and has to bite his cheeks hard for a moment to mimic the correct response to what he had just been told.

  
“Don’t worry, when Bellamy told them I was gay, his grandmother’s response was ‘Well, I’m sure there are gay doctors and lawyers out there.’”

Monty doesn’t laugh but he ducks his head to hide his smile and Miller is gone.

One hundred percent crushing on this guy.

* * *

 

Unfortunately, Miller lacks anything even _close_ to game.

When word had got around that he’d managed to sleep with Bellamy Blake, a few guys had come up and asked how he’d managed it and to this day, he doesn’t quite know.

They’d been sitting on the couch drinking, Miller had commented on a video game and the next thing he’d known, Bellamy had leaned over and started kissing him.

It had been great but just sitting around and waiting for a hot guy to start kissing him didn’t work the rest of the time.

Otherwise, his bed posts would have been notched down into toothpicks.

So, he’s not sure what to do and falls back on doing nothing for the moment, figuring he could wait until an opportunity presented itself.

Which it did when he’s in the library, half-studying for his last ever finals and half panicking about life after college when a bag is dropped in front of him and a girl follows it, perching herself on his desk.

  
“Heard you have access to a cat.”

  
The thing about Clarke Griffin, is that she is  _terrifying_. Not only was she excelling at medicine, but she was one of those weird people used both sides of their brain, creative and scientifically minded. Miller had met her through one of the LGBTQI events on campus and been thoroughly cowed by how efficiently she took over running and planning the fundraisers and meetings.

She was also his drug dealer, keeping him- and a few select others- in supply of Adderall and Modafinil.

It was the classiest group of addicts he had ever been a part of.

But the way she’s speaking has him wondering if cat blood is an ingredient in a new designer drug.

  
“Do you like cats?”

She shrugged, “Cats, dogs, I used to have rats that I trained to do my bidding.”

Of course, she did.

Fully aware that she’s one act of injustice away from becoming a supervillain, but also aware that Modafinil is a great drug, he cautiously invites her home with him.

Clarke isn’t one for small talk, even if she was, she has a thousand-yard stare and a tone that makes any conversation feel like an interrogation, and Miller isn’t great at it either, so they head back to his place in silence until he thinks to ask how she’d found out about Cleo.

  
“Monty told me.”

  
And Miller wants to jump on that, really he does, but he’s already unlocking the door to the sound of horrific coughing and walks in to find Bellamy lying on the couch, looking feverish with Cleo sitting on his bare chest.

Clarke merely steps around him, sits cross-legged on the coffee table and picks up Cleo with one hand while rummaging around in her bag, producing a thermometer which she jams into Bellamy’s mouth before he can even register what’s happening.

She diagnoses him, gives him an order and then cradles Cleo in her arms like a baby, talking to her as they walk away, and Miller is setting up a video game when Clarke returns, maintaining eye contact with the cat the entire time in what was either hypnosis or a silent battle to determine the alpha.

Bellamy seems to pull himself together enough to start chatting with Clarke, which quickly dissolves into the two of them arguing and after about fifteen minutes, Miller pointedly goes to his room for peace and quiet, eventually falling asleep to the sound of bickering about Star Wars.

By the weekend, he hasn’t seen Bellamy in enough days that he’s legitimately beginning to worry that he’s dead in a ditch somewhere, when he comes home to Cleo sitting at the front door looking pissed.

  
“’Sup?” he asks, and she growls, clearly having been wronged by the universe in some way.

  
Frowning, he takes a step into the apartment, his mind set on knocking on Bellamy’s door to see if he’s home when the sound reaches his ears.

The rhythmic banging of a bed head against the wall, with intermittent moans of a man and woman having sex.

Which was a good time as any for him to make himself scarce.

There’s a bowling alley nearby with an attached café that had lounges and pretty damn good wifi. Miller liked it because the owner had kept the terrible bowling alley carpet and set up the café with the clear idea of luring in stoners and stressed college students.

Unfortunately, Cleo seems to have decided that wherever he was going, she was coming too. He tries closing the door on her, but she darts past him and when he goes to pick her up, she races away and meows at him.

  
“Really?” he asks, because everyone talks to their pets, it’s not crazy at _all_.

“So Bellamy’s getting laid and the closest thing I have to a date is a _cat_.”

  
And, for the first time ever, he regrets not being bisexual because at least then he could make an inappropriate joke about this situation.

Or would that revoke his feminist-ally card?

He was probably overthinking this hypothetical situation.

* * *

 

He doesn’t manage to catch Cleo until they reach the footpath, at which point he scoops her up and- deciding that he had too much dignity to be a guy walking down the street cradling a cat- he opens up his backpack and tries to ease her in as gently as possible.

It went as well as could be expected.

With an outraged cat and an injured hand, Miller reached the café in a bad mood, ready and willing to glower or straight up glare his way to a free couch or table.

But he was in luck, he walked in just as a cutesy teen couple was leaving and with a speed he rarely displayed, grabbed the best couch, the one by the full-length windows and immediately claimed the space with his jacket and backpack.

He only belatedly remembered that Cleo was in there when she meowed in displeasure, but she appeared to settle.

The general rule at the café was that bare minimum you had to order a drink every hour and a meal if you were camped out past three hours. So, Miller grabs his wallet, gets in line to grab a coffee while keeping a close eye on his backpack, distracted to the point that he almost literally jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder.

  
“Sorry,” the familiar voice apologises, and he nearly pulls some previously unknown muscle in his back twisting around to see Monty standing behind him.

  
And had his smile always been so white and adorable?

Damn, he is _gone_.

  
“No problem,” Nate manages, “I should have been more alert, can’t have those zombies sneaking up on me once everything goes to hell.”

  
Monty’s smile only widens as he ducks his head in amusement and Miller is beginning to wonder if perhaps his crush has hearing damage.

  
“Preparation for the zombie apocalypse is the only reason I know first-aid,” Monty counters, jerking his chin at the register and Miller realises the assistant is standing there waiting for their order. While his coffee is being made he

“You here alone or…?”

Monty shakes his head, “My buddy and I are here enjoying the free wifi, we’d been planning to grab the couch, but you moved too fast.”

  
He tries to fight the blush rising in his cheeks but he’s pretty sure that only makes it worse,

  
“You can join me if you want,” he offers, barely managing not to stammer, “I’m just here because my roommate is getting laid louder than he needs to be.”

  
Somehow, possibly due to dangerously low standards, Monty agrees, and Miller grabs his coffee, heading back to the couch to see Monty having taken one end of the couch and an armchair having been pulled up.

A lanky guy is sprawled in the armchair and when Miller puts his coffee down with a clatter, he opens his eyes in a motion reminiscent of sloths,

  
“Hey, Monty,” he drawls, his grin slow and wide, “We got the couch.”

  
Some people can function normally while under the influence of marijuana.

This guy was _not_ one of them.   

He looked like an extra in a movie about teenage degeneracy, Miller could almost see him sitting in a smoky den slowly moving his hand in front of his face.

The phrase, ‘Baked like a cake’ was invented for guys like him.

  
“This is my friend, Jasper,” Monty introduces, “Jasper, this is Nate, he’s Bellamy’s roommate.”

There’s absolutely no spark of recognition there and Miller’s feeling a little awkward until Monty sighs, “Cleo’s owner.”

The sloth-like grin is actually kind of cute, “I love Cleo.”

  
Probably hearing her name, Cleo meows and Monty turns to the backpack, eyebrows raised,

  
“Yeah, uh…she wanted to come with me, refused to stay in the apartment,” he explains, picking it up carefully and depositing it onto Monty’s lap,

“I…uh didn’t have a plan for what to do with her though.”

Monty grins and shifts a little closer to him, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Yo, Roan!” Monty calls across the café, “Can we have a cat in here?”

  
The man who lumbers over looks like he got lost on his way to Wrestlemania, or possibly his future as a post-apocalyptic warlord.

  
“Can’t be any worse than the students I get through here,” he declares, crouching down to make eye contact with Cleo, whose head was now emerging from the backpack,

“Any mess it makes, you clean it up.”

“Thanks,” Monty says, “This is Cleocatra, she’s the cat Clarke mentioned.”

“The one with the cute gay owners?” Roan prompts, “Or I guess one of them has to be bi, because she spent the last three days climbing him like a short little stepladder.”

  
Miller has been about to take a sip of coffee but wisely puts his cup back onto the table,

  
“Bellamy Blake.” he interjects as Monty drops his forehead onto Cleo’s head, but Roan only shrugs, probably already counting down the minutes until his next round in the thunderdome.

“Don’t care.”

  
He ambles off and Monty opens his mouth to say something, but Jasper suddenly gasps in surprise,   
  
  
“ _Cleo, my love!_ ” he cries dramatically, and Cleo climbs out of the backpack, pouncing across the space onto his lap.

  
The two of them begin rubbing each other’s faces, both purring and Miller leans back into the couch, his shoulder rubbing against Monty who only sighs,

  
“Yeah…this still isn’t the weirdest double-date I’ve ever been on.”

  
His brain catches up with his mouth about ten seconds too late judging by the blush on his cheeks, but Miller knows an opportunity when he sees one.

  
“I’d ask but then I wouldn’t have an excuse to grab drinks with you another time, or you know, go somewhere when I’m not cat-sitting.”

“I’d like that,”

  
Jasper is now crooning a love-song to Cleo, who has her head tilted back in rapture and Miller would be concerned, but he’d rather be focusing his attention on Monty.

They talk videogames, tv shows, movies and books and Miller is halfway through humblebragging about his collection of nineties games, including the entirety of the Lemmings franchise that he just needs to get an old disk drive for when Monty cuts him off by stealing a kiss.

It’s over before Miller can even react, and he’s leaning towards him to try and chase the kiss, left with only space as Monty draws back.

  
“Sorry.” He apologises, and Miller is blinking as he tries to catch his brain up with the situation. 

“No…uh, it’s okay, kiss me whenever you like.”

Monty’s grin is far too adorable to be used in public, “I’d love to.”

* * *

 

_Three weeks later._

  
“Yo, assholes!”

  
Miller opens his eyes reluctantly as Octavia’s loud voice penetrates his bedroom door.

  
“Where’s Cleo?!”

He has a moment of panic before Bellamy calls out, “In here, O and use your indoor voice.”

  
There’s a shift in the blankets and he turns his head to see Monty curled up on his side, barely visible under the duvet.

Trying his level-best to smile even when he’s still half-asleep, Miller reaches over and strokes his hair gently, careful not to wake his boyfriend.

He closes his eyes and enjoys the comfort of his bed, the warm weight next to him and the knowledge that he had absolutely no reason to get out of bed.

He can hear Bellamy’s bedroom door opening and Octavia’s poor attempt to lower her voice,

  
“I’m taking her to Roan’s café, there’s a hot guy there and I want to play the rescued-cat card.”

Beside him, Monty chuckles, not even opening his eyes, “Cleo the cat-chmaker.”

Miller snickers into his pillow, “That was terrible. It’s a good thing you’re pretty”

  
Humming, Monty moves closer and Miller drapes an arm over his shoulders,

  
“It’s a good thing you have a cat.”

 


End file.
